Out of Despair
by Ethos
Summary: Reflecting on his life and the ways in which an unlooked-for friendship shaped it, Elladan finds himself making an unlikely decision. Teitho 3rd Place.


Title: Out of Despair

Summery: Reflecting on his life and the ways in which an unlooked-for friendship shaped it, Elladan finds himself making an unlikely decision.

Rating: PG for tragedy and largely figurative descriptions of violence.

Disclaimer: As much as I wish I could take credit for inventing Aragorn and Middle Earth, I can't. All things recognizable belong to the amazing J.R.R Tolkien.

Notes: Written for Teitho "Unexpected Adventure" - 3rd Place

* * *

He remembered the day the messenger came, telling them that Celebrían had not arrived in Lothlórien.

Fear quenched his pulse and he glanced at his brother. Without a word, they took up arms and rode out from their father's house. They followed her trail high into the mountains, and with keen eyes discerned where the goblin track had met her own. It was not long then, just a search for their burrow and the Sons of Elrond had poured in like the wrath of Valinor, like a river of light which broke its banks and swept the darkness away in its path. They carved their bloody way through the enemy host. None could look at them. No blades drew near them.

Stinking corpses filled the tunnels when at last they found her; a waning light in the black of the den. Elladan dropped his sword and rushed to her side, tears filling his eyes as he saw her hurts, and as he saw the pale flecks of her beauty shining through them. He held her, called to her, vaguely conscious of Elrohir near at hand.

He wanted to turn away, to escape the sight of her and pretend none of it had ever happened. That his mother was well and whole and singing in the gardens. But Elrohir had already retreated to call for aid, and it was left to Elladan to stroke his mother's face softly, and through the choked sobs, he began to sing. He did not know what words he uttered, but the light seemed to swell in the cavern. Golden motes appeared and drifted up. The lines of anguish faded from her face.

Help burst through the door then, but it would avail them nothing. They brought her out of the mountain, silent tears dripping down his face in a steady flow. The wail of Elrond at the sight of her was terrible to behold, and all rushed to aid him. Elladan slipped away from the press then, the sound of something snapping within his breast filling his ears.

From the cliffs above the Last Homely House, he kept his silent vigil. He warred within himself, hating the cowardice that kept him from her side and yet knowing that to look upon her again would destroy him, and at all times he pled with the Valar, begging them to spare her life, or end it mercifully. He heard his name called from below, but did not answer, and the searchers did not persist. Only his brother found him in that high, lonely place. Only Elrohir knew him so well.

"How does she fare?" Elladan asked, breaking the companionable silence.

"Her wounds mend," his brother said without meeting his gaze, "but she will never heal. Her spirit is broken. At night she looks into the shadows and screams, and not even Adar can soothe her. She will never again find rest on these shores."

Elladan's strength fled at his brother's words until even his own breath was an effort. "Then she shall not stay on these shores any longer." He met his brother's eyes at last and silent words passed between them.

That night, Elrohir stayed by their mother's side, while Elladan rode hard for the Grey Havens and bade them prepare a ship. When all was in place and Celebrían was aboard, the crew pushed off. Elladan's feet drew near the edge of the dock. A great leap now and he could go with her, see her restored with the bright light shining in her eyes. It was so near, the call so strong. He shook with indecision, but then he cast a glance to those beside him, elven lords reduced to rattling husks, and he knew his path.

He watched the ship drift into the horizon with the setting sun, and as both faded from sight, the three lords knew they would never be whole again. They looked to each other, and supped that night without words. But in the morning they remembered their wrath, and the two sons whetted their blades and lept upon their mounts, and with a cry the rode off for the Misty Mountains and for vengeance.

A season of wrath and blood-letting stretched into many, until years beyond count by all but the First Born had passed, and the once merry Sons of Elrond were made grim, stone-faced figures. When their travels brought them home, they had little patience for revelry or music. Beauty was a distraction. They bowed their heads to Elronds' requests, but when he turned the twins were gone.

They kept company with those who slew the spawn of the enemy. They trained with them, ate with them, fought and bled with them, counting the Men of the North their kin. They charged down the hillside like an outpouring of wrath and rode down the orcs with roughshod hooves. When the dust settled and the screams abated, Elladan had been the one to find him. The chieftain of these hardy men lay in the grass, fletched shaft through his eye. Elladan fell to his knees and clutched the still form to his chest with a thin wail. "Not again," he begged, but there was no answer.

He remembered Gilraen riding, clutching her son. Her stricken face was pale and rigid as marble. And though painfully young, the boy's bright grey eyes peered at him in stolid sorrow, seemingly knowing things he had no way of understanding. The half-elf's heart rent at the sight of them, and with all his courage he could not long abide the familiar pain they bore. Upon seeing them safely to his father, he did not so much as unsaddle his horse before he rode on, his brother in quick pursuit and bloodlust filling their hearts.

Some years had passed when next they rode into the valley. War-worn and weary, they met with their father and rested in the Hall of Fire. It was there that Elladan next saw him.

Arathorn's young son crawled up next to him and sat down, hands clasped over his knees. Elladan glared down at the child who'd interrupted his musings, but hesitated to say anything when he saw how the child fought to hold himself still and glanced up at him with wide eyes. When the boy failed to speak, Elladan grudgingly broke the silence. "Is there something you need, Adan?" he asked.

The boy reddened and ducked his head before looking back up to the prince. "Pardon, Lord. Nana says I mustn't bother you... But she also says you knew my ada. She says you knew my ada when he died." The boy looked down then and toyed with his stubby little fingers, picked at the hem of his tunic, afraid to look up.

Something caught in Elladan's throat. "I knew him," he said at last. "Your adar was a very great man. He wasn't afraid of anything." Memories assailed the warrior, and a bitter chuckle fell from his lips. "He could shoot the wick off a candle at a hundred paces… He was my friend." The admission felt strange on his tongue, but it was right, and the child was looking at him with full-moon eyes.

"How did he die?"

"Your adar was a man who fought to keep others safe from the bad things that would seek to harm them. He died protecting those who cannot protect themselves. Your adar was a hero." Cheap words. Needed words.

"Nana says much the same. She says I have to wait until I'm older to hear more, but I know she worries that bad things will come after me. She doesn't think I hear her, but I do."

Elladan frowned and turned to face the child more fully. "Nothing will hurt you while you dwell here," he assured. "See that elf just over there? He and I are brothers. You have not seen us much because we go away for long stretches at a time. We kill any evil that dares come near Imladris. Nothing shall ever pass through our watch."

The boy nodded solemnly. "Because the orcs killed your nana and you don't want anyone else to get hurt."

Elladan's blood ran cold as he stared at the child. The boy's words were nothing, just a guess, or that's what he told himself as those keen grey blades pierced him through. But he could see her glimmering in the shadows. Feel her hand in his and hear screams in the failing daylight.

He stood and walked away.

He remembered watching the boy grow in bounds between hunts. Where once the boy had stood at his knee, the boy's head reached to his chest. Elrond pulled the Peredhil aside at last, concern adding age to an ageless brow. "You wander afar too much, my sons. You cannot live from rage to rage until the failing of the world. There is hope here, and a future. Can you not see it?"

Elladan shut his eyes and his heart and made to turn away, but a firm grasp on his shoulder stopped him. "Look!" his father called. "See there!" A fine white finger pointed to the garden where the Son of Arathorn crouched with a wooden sword at his hip, sneaking up on fell beasts disguised as robins in the grass.

Cold, impassive eyes settled on the lord, but Elrond persisted.

"He is his father's son, and ever so much more! Every day, he grows stronger, taller, kinglier. He is the one. It shall be his doom that shall decide the fate this land; the white tree will bloom again, else all will be fire and darkness. He cannot go on as he has much longer. He must take his place amongst his people and prepare for the coming shadow, and he cannot do that without great skill at arms."

"There are many who could teach him here," Elladan replied.

"None who will teach him as you will."

Elladan began to walk away.

"Have you forgotten your love for Arathorn so completely?" The ancient lord demanded, and the prince stayed in his tracks.

The two brothers set to teaching their pupil with cool professionalism. There was no laughter, no jests, no stayed blows. There was no cruelty either, but simply the harsh truth of the battlefield, blunted only as much as their blades. The brothers knew that the boy must soon grow weary of his bruises. He would plead with Elrond and all would be released from the unhappy endeavor.

Just as they saw defeated tears spring to the boy's cheeks, the child bowed his head and shut his eyes. A breath passed in the yard while Elladan and Elrohir looked on expectantly. But when the Son of Arathorn opened his eyes again, the cool grey flashed to bright steel, the jaw, freshly deprived of youthful excess, hardened, and he threw himself forward with renewed fury. They disarmed him and held their blades against his throat until he conceded, but as each went their own way, Elladan could not escape the onslaught of those silver eyes, and the determination in his strikes.

That night, the brothers surpassed their usual silence. "Adar was right," Elladan said at long last, gazing out the window at the night-lit world.

"I saw it too."

They did not lighten their blows, nor fail to take every opening in the months that followed. Indeed, they pressed him harder. A timid hope, a mild respect, was growing in their minds which they could not quell, and with it came a fear: that this boy should be swallowed by darkness like so many other things they had begun to love. The boy would not fall in battle. This they swore in their own hearts, and so they drove him mercilessly toward perfection.

Still, in the quiet hours of the mornings, and when the first stars appeared at night, they would teach him of the world beyond the valley. Their guard slipped as they told stories of distant lands and battles of long ago, of noble lords and dwarven maidens. They smiled.

And from afar, Elrond watched and smiled as well.

He remembered the long passage of years; marked by the swift hardening of the boy's face, the addition of hollows beneath his eyes born of too little sleep, the hollows in his cheeks from lack of food, the fine lines telling of too many cares. But to the princes, it was no more than a breath.

The brothers resumed their forays into the mountain holds as the youth took his place amongst his people. Sometimes they joined with him to slay the beasts far to the north, at others, he would journey south and east with them, into the foothills of the Misty Mountains, swift on the heels of an enemy band. When the three fought side by side, their foes were gripped by terror. Flashing steel and keen skill spelling death for any who came near. At night they'd speak by the fire, telling tales or singing melancholy songs of better places and better times.

The days grew darker, their task heavier, as the strength of the East gathered. When the ring came to light and all gathered in their father's land to discus its fate, they were there, and it was they to whom their father turned in need. "You are known to journey to the Misty Mountains and beyond often. It would rouse no suspicion if you did so now." That was all the lord had to say. The sons looked at each other and gave a slow nod, and ere the Son of Arathorn set out with the fellowship, they rode into the wilds, cleaving a path through the enemy who'd grown bold with their master's towering presence. They thought nothing of it; a simple continuation of their duty.

He remembered when word of the boy came. The boy had summoned his brethren out of the north to aid him in the great war of an age. The brothers heard this as they supped with the Dúnedain one night. Their eyes flashed, and when all broke camp in the morning, the Sons of Elrond did not leave.

"What mean you to do, My Lords?" Halbarad asked.

"There are orcs to slay," was all the answer they supplied, but they helped the chieftain's second gather the hardy folk and together they rode south on a long and weary way until at last they met the Son of Arathorn through a thick fog. It was they who brought Elrond's foresight to bear on the war. They felt their pulses quicken on the black roads they trod, and they flashed fierce smiles through the blood and screams of Pelennor.

When the council convened to decide the fate of western men, they readily seconded the ride into darkness. It wasn't until much later, when all the preparations had been made, and in the quiet hours of the night, when those who should have slept wandered the halls as if already ghosts, the Dúnadan caught them up.

"My brothers," he said grasping each by the shoulder. "You are not bound by the fate of this world. You have a choice. The White Harbor will take you. You do not have to ride to death with mortal Men." His eyes were bright, but he spoke soberly with no trace of tremor, just the timbre of concern.

For the first time, Elladan hesitated. He drew a breath and looked to his brother, then let a chill imitation of mirth show on his face. "We have always ridden to death," he said at last, the bite of steel weighing his voice. "Now we simply meet it." He looked away then, but the time for silence was gone, and so he spoke again. "But I count myself fortunate indeed, that I should meet it in such fine company. I thank the Valar to have known you, Aragorn."

"And I you." The boy's -the man's- features twinkled with barely checked emotion, and he nodded and looked about them with that starry gaze. "And we do not yet know what doom we shall find before the Black Gate. Perhaps…" He let the word hang, the flickering of a guttering candle in darkness made tangible.

The three looked at each other then, words incommunicable passing through a glance. When the sun next rose, it found all the strength Men had to offer marching on Mordor. At its helm rode the Hope of Men, and near to his side were the Sons of Elrond.

He remembered when the gates swung open and the Peredhil found themselves adrift in a sea of flesh and pain as had never been seen by their aged eyes. Steel sang, hearts faltered, and the ground grew slick with the fallen. Their limbs were loosed as never before and every reserve poured out upon the field. It was the fight they had so long sought. The battle which required all the strength they possessed. Then, beyond hope and beyond thought, the day was won, the Ring destroyed, and the darkness fallen into dust. They stood, heaving, shaking, blades held in nerveless hands, disbelieving of their fate. Yet they lived, they breathed, and at long last, victory set on them.

With fierce pride, they watched as Aragorn took up his crown, and when they brought Arwen to meet her love, joy and sorrow ran intermingled down their faces.

All this, he remembered the day their father called to them.

"My sons," Elrond said, tears in his voice. "My time has come. I shall go across the sea. Arwen has made her choice, but yours lies before you still. Will you go with me?"

Elladan looked across the valley, but in his mind's eye, he saw again the silver shores and the ship sailing into the failing sun. The pain and yearning roared within him, having ever lain just beneath the surface. He'd nearly stepped onto the deck that day, so many lifetimes ago. He could feel the planks beneath his feet once again, smell the salt on the air, hear the calls of gulls. He could see her face, her bright hair, her smile as it had once been. Tears rose and ran unbidden down his face, but then he smiled and turned to Elrohir. Some understanding passed between them, and Elladan turned to Elrond. "For so long, my only hope lay to the West. My heart has longed for this day and now it is come… But there is a new hope here, and I would see it rooted ere I make my final choice."

Elrond laughed and caught his sons behind their heads, drawing them nearer, and kissing their brows. "I will bear your love to her."

Another parting was not easy for them. They paced the halls of their home, pondering the wisdom of their choice and hearing the call of the sea all the keener. Then a summons came and they journeyed far to meet what remained of their kin. They embraced Arwen warmly when they saw her again, but no less dear was their embrace for the Son of Arathorn.

For Estel.


End file.
